Alan Wake

of crowbars! Barry’s smile widened as he realized that this was the classic movie scene where the hero had to gear up and arm himself to the teeth. Barry threw himself into the role.

Barry burst through the door of the cabin, still wearing the red parka in spite of the heat of the day.

“Hey! Good news! I got a call on my way back from town. That waitress, Rose, says she’s found a bunch of your manuscript pages. She wants us to come by and pick them up.”

“How did she get them?”

“How do I know?” said Barry. “She works at that diner, talks to everybody. Besides, she’s your biggest fan, just ask her.”

Wake quickly gathered up the pages on the table. He started to tuck them away in a drawer, then thought better of it, folded them lengthwise and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “You got an address for her?”

“Oh yeah,” said Barry, following Wake out the door. “She lives in the trailer park. Big surprise, huh?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” said Wake.

“You’re right,” admitted Barry as they got into his car. “It’s easy to look down on people when you don’t need them. Rose, she’s alright.” He glanced over at Wake as they drove toward the main road. “I found a lot of information in the local newspaper’s archives. There’s been all kinds of weird stuff happening in Bright Falls for over a hundred years. Very weird stuff.”

Wake checked his watch. It would be dark in a few hours. He didn’t used to dread the night, but he did now.

“This place is a regular Night Springs episode,” said Barry, accelerating. “Mysterious deaths, Bigfoot sightings—”

“Any kidnappings?”

“No, not that I heard of,” said Barry, “but there’s plenty of disappearances, locals who walk away from their cabin and never come back, tourists that pass through town and never get to the campground, and get this, Al, most of this stuff takes place around Cauldron Lake.”

Wake stared straight ahead, watching the trees whip past. It felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

“The Indian tribes considered Cauldron Lake to be the gateway to Hell,” said Barry, excited. “You got to write about this stuff…” He caught himself. “As soon, you know, as soon as we get Alice back.”

“Just drive, Barry. I want to get those manuscript pages.”

“I was trying to help, that’s all. Little conversation. Pass the time.”

“You are helping,” said Wake, shaking his head. “I’m the one with the problem. I feel like I’m in a nightmare and I can’t wake up.”

A half hour later they pulled into the parking lot of Sparkling River Estates. Twenty or so small trailers were scattered across the gravel, most of them with satellite dishes on their roofs, barbeque grills beside their front doors. A flagpole stood out front, the American flag hanging limply in the stillness. Surrounding the park was a white picket fence that needed painting. Wooden pallets, old tires, and fifty-gallon oil drums littered the site.

Barry nodded at the rusting Chevy up on blocks, its hook raised. “This looks like where NASCAR nation goes to die.”

“Barry… this is going to sound a little crazy—”

“I’m shocked.” Barry held up a hand. “Sorry. What do you want to say?”

“If at some point you find yourself in the general store in town, you should know that there’s a case of flare guns—”

“Flare guns?” said Barry, genuinely confused. “Like when you’re lost in the woods? Like the Bat signal?”

“Yeah, like that. The flare guns, they’re stored next to the baked beans. The flare guns are locked up, but there’s crowbars nearby, so you can open up the case.”

“Okay, Al.” Barry patted his arm. “I’ll put that information away for safekeeping.”

Wake’s phone rang. “Hello.”

“Mr. Wake? It’s Sheriff Breaker. Sorry to bother you, but we have an FBI agent here, an Agent Nightingale. He’s… anxious to see you. Can you come by the station?”

“FBI?” Wake was even more concerned now. The kidnapper had made it very clear that bringing in the law would get Alice killed. “I thought you were going to wait until your men had searched—”

“I didn’t call in Agent Nightingale,” the sheriff said tightly. “He showed up unasked and unannounced.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” said Wake, breaking the connection.

“Maybe it’s a good thing the FBI is getting involved,” said Barry.

“No, it’s not,” said Wake.

“You want me to make some calls, Al?” said Barry. “I got an attorney that springs Mafia dons. He can be on a plane—”

“I don’t need an attorney.”

“That’s what they all say,” said Barry. “Right before the prison door slams.”

Wake got out of the car and walked over to where a middle-aged man was raking leaves out of a wilting flower bed. The man wore camouflage pants and a bright-yellow vest over a short-sleeve shirt.

“Excuse me. We’re looking for Rose Marigold’s trailer.”

“What do you want with Rose?” The man leaned on his rake, squinting at Wake. “You that writer fella? Rose has a display with your picture on it at the diner.”

“Yeah, I’m Alan Wake. Can you show us where her trailer is?”

The man rubbed his potbelly as though that helped him decide. “I guess it’s okay, then. Rose, she’s your biggest fan.” He noisily cleared his throat, spat. “Me, I’m not much of a reader. I’m Randolph. I manage the park.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Wake and Barry said at the same time.

Randolph cackled. “You don’t look like twins.” He waited for a reaction, looked disappointed when neither of them smiled. “Okay.” He dropped the rake and hitched up his jeans. “Follow me,” he said, limping toward the rear of the park. He looked back over his shoulder. “Rose… she’s a good girl, you know. Always pays her rent on time, not like some of the losers around here.”

Wake dogged Randolph, frustrated by the man’s slow pace.

“You ever hear of a writer named Thomas Zane?” Barry asked Wake.

“Name’s familiar,” said Wake, trying to remember where he had heard it.

“Supposed to be a bestseller back in the day, but I did a search at the library and couldn’t find a thing he had written,” said Barry. “He supposedly owned an island in the lake—”

“Diver’s Isle,” said Randolph, walking even slower now. He stopped to cough.

“What?” said Wake.

“Diver’s Isle, that’s the name of Zane’s island,” said Randolph, still coughing. “Old folks around here say he was a diver, used those old-time pressure suits. That lake’s deeper than it looks. Guess he liked to explore— damned fool if you ask me. That lake’s eaten more cars and people than you’d believe. Hell, it ate the island!”

Wake remembered now where he had seen the man’s name: on a shelf of books in Bird Leg Cabin. He grabbed Randolph’s arm. “This island of Zane’s… was there a cabin on it? A cabin sitting on a nest of sticks?”

Randolph shrugged off Wake’s arm. “Don’t know, mister, I only moved here thirty years ago. Folks were still talking about the volcano under the lake erupting in 1970. Sank the island. Sank Thomas Zane along with it, that’s what they said.”

“The story gets better, Al,” interjected Barry. “Local girl Barbara Jagger and Zane were lovers. She drowned in the lake just a week before the island sank. Told you this place was spooky—”

“You city folk will believe anything.” Randolph coughed, spat at Barry’s feet. “Barbara Jagger’s a bedtime story mamas tell their kids to scare ’em straight.” He hacked up phlegm, swallowed it this time. “Folks around here call her the Scratching Hag, comes for you in the dark. Or Granny Claws, that’s another one of her names.”

He flung his open hands at Barry. “Boo!” He laughed loudly when Barry jumped.

“That’s not funny,” fumed Barry.

Randolph limped on.

Barry beckoned for Wake to hang back. “A lot of the articles about the history of weird things going on in Bright Falls were written by Cynthia Weaver.”

“Who?”